


Les Boudelaires

by rrueplumet



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rrueplumet/pseuds/rrueplumet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel, Courfeyrac, and Bossuet each oversee to arranging Jehan’s first time with a woman.  Everything spirals a bit out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Boudelaires

 

A pining poet was a predicament posing problems of a particularly perilous place.   This particular poet pontificated a potentially precarious plot, a plan his perfected perseverance would never prepare to pamper.

Jehan was pining.  

And it affected him so drastically his musings were alliterated.   

Yet, outwardly, he said very little on the matter.  It was strange, but for creatures of word it seemed rare poets needed to utter their grievances.   Their hearts were more than woven to their sleeves, but painted in deft strokes across their skin, in their gaze, reflected onto the world so the very metamorphosis of nature endeavoured to match their woes and pleasures with the thunder or summer’s breeze.  

And Jehan was in woe.  A great, deep, terrible pit of woe.  He bled of melancholia, exuded little but despair.   He sighed prettily but dolefully, tracing dull tips of pens over parchment, writing more than listening, dreaming more than living.   His friends forgave his behaviour at the start, understanding Jehan’s nature.   He was a man of love and life, but even the highest of Romantics were prone to fits of misery.  In fact, it completed their cycle. And so, for a time, they let him be. 

Only poor Jehan never seemed to recover.  Every day he fell into a slump far steeper than before.

Yet action was only conceived when one day Courfeyrac happened upon a nonsensical scribble and blanched at what he read.

“Jean Prouvaire!”

The miserable little flower was wilting, chin in his palm, gaze unseeing, a pout on his lips.  When Courfeyrac called his name he was barely disturbed, gaze flittering from the empty air to his nearby friend.   

Courfeyrac slapped the poem onto the table, dragging his chair closer to Jehan so they could speak.  Jehan slowly came to his senses, reaching for the poem.   Courfeyrac put his hand on its face to stop him. 

“Your grievances grieve me likewise, friend,” Courfeyrac said.  Jehan blinked at him with those pretty eyelashes.  “I pray you, share!  What plague ills you?”

“Plague?”  Jehan lifted his chin from his palm so he might clasp his hands together.  “Oh lamentable strife!  It is the prong of nature’s greatest plague.  It is unassailable.  With her clawed fingers she grasps the entrails of my soul and pulls – pulls!  Day in and day out until I can barely breathe.  She draws the air from my lungs and my chest caves in.  My shoulders are heavy, my coat too much to bear.   And I am nothing, nothing to her wiles!  She has traversed the plains of time, built civilizations and destroyed them all the same.  What is one more man?  I knew my hour would come – in fact, I thought my hour had come, many times.  But I did not understand its truth until now.  Did not conceive its depth!  It is an agony.  It is the snare that makes wise men fools and fools wise men.   It is a plague older than time.”

“Jehan, sweet,” Courfeyrac spoke tenderly, laying a hand on his shoulder.  “Speak plainly.  Your poetry reads of a...a most gruesome death.  Have you befallen some terrible malady?”

“That of the heart.”

“Good pardon?”

“Oh, Courfeyrac!  I am in love!”  Jehan collapsed onto the table, head on his arms.  “It is life’s greatest torture.”

Courfeyrac sat back and breathed out, both tempted to swipe at the little versifier but also giggle with him.  Naturally, his better side triumphed.

“Ah,” he said, smiling.  “That explains it then.”

“Explains it?” Jehan sat a little straighter.  “Have I been so obvious?”

At present, Jehan wore a white shirt with the buttons askew, a green waistcoat stained with blue ink, a hastily wrapped purple cravat, off-white trousers that were turning yellow, muddied at the knees and calves, and his shoes did not match.   He had not worn a frockcoat in days, but had been adding new ribbons to his hair without removing the old ones.   His flaxen but dim locks were tied at his nape with red, pink, and yellow ribbons.   The sight was almost enough to make a fashionable man weep.   Courfeyrac was steadfast, however, and merely leaned forward to address his friend.

“Yes.”

And quite plainly at that. 

Jehan was positively desolate.   “Oh, look at me!  I spread my agony like a disease.  You must turn me out!”   He was in his feet in a moment, reaching blindly for nothing as a drunk man might.   Courfeyrac stood, seizing him by the forearms.

“Jehan, temper yourself.”

“Temper!  Temper!  Oh glorious rage of the heart—!”

“No...no, not like that.”  Courfeyrac returned him to his seat, Jehan dropping like a sack of lead.  “Have you kept your affections to yourself?”  Courfeyrac asked, sitting as well.

Jehan clutched his chest, eyes widening ever so slightly.  “Of course,” he said, words breaking on a gasp.  “Why, I might sully her good name by merely associating myself to her!  And besides, whom might I tell?”

Courfeyrac blinked, shook his head, then reached out to pat Jehan on the knee.  “First of all, my poor bewildered dear, there is no shame in admitting your affections, especially among friends.”

Jehan, blushing, turned his gaze down.  “I...I thought you might laugh at me.”

“Laugh!”  Courfeyrac tossed a hand in the air, a brightness taking to his gaze.  “Jehan, you surprise me.  When it comes to matters of the heart, you know I make no jests.”

“Yes, I do know that,” Jehan said, tracing circles on the floor with the toe of his shoe.  “Perhaps my spirit’s muddled despair blinded thought of all else.  Do forgive me, Courfeyrac.”

“Think of it no more,” Courfeyrac said, and in a moment was on his feet.  Jehan returned his gaze, looking up at Courfeyrac in surprise.    “Come.”  Courfeyrac donned his hat, snatching his cane from where he had leaned it against the wall.   “We are going to find your beloved.”

Jehan, pink and wide-eyed, leapt to his feet, ribbons fluttering as his hair flapped about. 

“I beg your pardon!” he cried.

Courfeyrac swiped Bahorel’s hat off his head.  Bahorel, who had been in peaceful discourse with Bossuet – at least as peaceful as their lot could possibly be – whirled around, lifting out of his chair and reaching for it.

“Down!”  Courfeyrac waved his cane as though warding off a dog.  “It’s for a friend.”

“What need has your friend of my hat?” Bahorel asked, brow furrowed. 

“He is your friend too!  Look at him.”  Courfeyrac stepped aside to point to Jehan and his dishevelled self.  “No hat and no coat. Joly, hand me your frockcoat!  You are close enough to his size.”

Joly was standing by the mirror, holding his eyelid in place so he could study the eye.  He let go, looking over his shoulder when Courfeyrac called to him.

“Pardon?”

“Your coat, give it here!” 

“Courfeyrac, please.”  Jehan sidled up alongside him, laying a hand on his arm.  “You needn’t bother yourself.  I am content to wallow alone.”

“Content to wallow!”  Courfeyrac put Bahorel’s hat on Jehan’s head.  “There is no such thing as this: content to wallow.  Either you are content or you wallow.  How does one wallow contently?  Were you content, you would not be wallowing.  Wallow, wallow.  Joly, your coat!”

“I need my coat!”  Joly clutched his lapels.  “It may be spring and afternoon but it still grows cold when the sun goes down!”

“If they’re not back by then you can wear mine,” Bossuet offered, barely glancing over his shoulder to address Joly.  He had his gaze fixed on Courfeyrac and Jehan.   “You have succeeded in garnering my own curiosity: what project are you making of this?”

“If you mean to dress him like you I implore you desist,” Bahorel remarked, handing off a smoking pipe to Bossuet.  “One Courfeyrac is enough, thank you.”

Courfeyrac tapped him on the head with the cane.  “Mongrel,”  he spoke amiably, turning to Jehan.  “May I tell them?”

“T-tell them?   I—no!”

“They won’t laugh!”  Courfeyrac assured him, taking Joly’s coat as Joly approached.  “It is such a good story, Jehan.”

“Story!”  Jehan swatted at the coat as Courfeyrac passed it forward.  “You have no knowledge of the story!”

“Its foundation is grounds enough,” Courfeyrac said, persisting with the coat. “You can say it, if you wish.”

“I do not wish!”

“May I, then?”

“You...oh...you...”

“Oh, let him, Jehan!”  Joly cried, spirits improved, a glowing smile on his face.  Jehan stared at that smile and seemed to fall further into misery.  He knew there was no power on earth that could refuse Joly’s smile. 

Courfeyrac, recognizing this, happily turned to declare, “Jean Prouvaire is in love.”

There was a stir instantly, Bahorel turning around in his seat to look clearly at Jehan while Bossuet and Joly sort of jostled back and forth. 

“In love,” Bahorel said, a wide grin on his face.  “Who do you love, little blossom?”

“We are off to find her now,” Courfeyrac answered.

“I want to come,” Bossuet said, sitting straight.

“As do I,” Joly added, nodding vehemently.

“No!”  Jehan waved his arms, shaking his head.   “None of you are coming.  I should not be going at all.  I do not even know why I am allowing him to persuade me.”

“It is your heart’s desire,” Courfeyrac said, speaking as though he were the man in desperate love.  He gripped Jehan by the shoulders, clinching Joly’s coat in one hand.   “Poor besotted fool!  You love so many things and surely know by now how much sweeter the romance is when held in your arms.”

Jehan, blushing anew, gnawed at his lower lip for a moment.  Breathing out, he said, “I...yes.   I know.  I...”

“Then let us find her.”  Courfeyrac hooked the coat over Jehan’s shoulders, leaving Jehan to the rest. “Just the pair of us.  You can send word of your victorious spoils another time.”

“Victorious spoils!”  Jehan squeaked.   “Courfeyrac, you ought to know better than to insinuate before the likes of me!  My mind has all manner of... _spoils_  present now.”

Bahorel laughed, rowdy and big, and Bossuet chortled where Joly tried to stifle his giggles.  Jehan frowned at them. 

“You see!”  He looked back at Courfeyrac.  “Such vulgar intimations disturb the heart’s intimacy.”

“Love  _has_  often proven to disturb intimacy in the past,” Bahorel remarked rather dryly, turning to lift a bottle.  “I’d rather say nothing quells a spoil quite so quickly.”

Jehan took Courfeyrac’s cane to smack Bahorel on the back of the head.  Bahorel, surprised, looked back at him. 

Jehan tutted.   “Love is everything.”

“Yes, of course! That is hardly my implication. I more meant what provisos certain rounds of love might leave in their wake. For love - ah, yes, love is everything but it is also more... and certainly sex an extension!” Bahorel said, nodding.   Then he grinned.  “Rather literally.”

Jehan had gone completely red.  He turned away, rubbing a hand over his face.

Courfeyrac, uneasy, realized where this was going even before Bossuet, as gently as Bossuet could, which was not very gently, asked, “Jehan Prouvaire...have you ever...?”

Bahorel looked at Bossuet then quickly to Jehan.  “Oh, no,” Bahorel said in disbelief, shaking his head.  “Naturally the poet has!  How else can he write his sonnets if he does not understand the details of passion?”

Jehan cleared his throat, standing straight, offering no reply as Bahorel spoke for him.  However, Bahorel then looked back and seemed to consider again.

“Or have you?”

“What?”  Jehan wiped the sweat from his temple.  Joly’s coat insulated almost too well.   “I...I have...I have known many women!”

“Yes, so has Bossuet.”  Bahorel laughed.  “It doesn’t mean he’s slept with them.”

Bossuet reached across the table to smack the back of his head with a bottle.  Bahorel shot him a glare before looking back at Jehan.  “There’s no shame in it.  Honestly now, have you ever been with a woman?”

Jehan shuffled back and forth, gaze moving about the room before settling on the map of France.  “I hadn’t the need,” he said, speaking as nonchalantly as he possibly could.  “My love has never before run so deep.”

“But it has now?”  Courfeyrac asked, drawing him away from the others.   Jehan looked up at him, blinking slowly.  Courfeyrac smiled kindly.  “Perhaps, if that is so, this should be remedied.”

Jehan stumbled backwards.  Catching himself on a table, he stared at Courfeyrac in distress.

“I deem my mere name alongside hers an offence and you...you mean to...see to my...with...with  _her_!  I could not possibly—”

“Walk with me,” Courfeyrac said, taking Jehan’s arm and guiding him forward.   “It would seem I have much to give you by way of instruction.  Heed it, then make your own resolution.   But first – do you know where the lady is likely to be at this hour?”

Jehan, staring at the ground, turned his head slowly to Courfeyrac.

After a moment, he nodded, and Courfeyrac grinned.

“Perfect.”

 

=

 

They had been at the Luxembourg for a quarter of an hour when Jehan convulsed and Courfeyrac had to stop him from swooning.

“I take it the lady is near?”

Jehan grabbed him by the arm and tugged, hurrying behind a tree.  Courfeyrac smacked his forehead against a low branch, his hat falling to the ground.

 “Shh, stop it, she’ll see you!”

“I need my hat!”

“Damn your hat!”

“Let me get my hat!”

Wrestling a moment, Courfeyrac found himself sprawled out on the ground, reaching for his hat.  Jehan tugged him back by the hips.   Eventually Courfeyrac returned, hat in hand, crouching low beside Jehan.   He dusted the brim before placing it on his head, then turned to lift an eyebrow at Jehan.  Jehan, giggling, laid his fingers over his lips.

“This is a poor start,” he said.

“Decidedly so,” Courfeyrac replied.   He peered around the tree, trying to guess which young lady might be the object of Jehan Prouvaire’s devotion.   “Which is she?”  Courfeyrac asked.

Jehan leaned around the tree as well, bending over Courfeyrac.  After glancing over various persons,  Jehan gripped Courfeyrac’s shoulder thoughtlessly and squeezed.  Yelping, Courfeyrac drew himself lower, swatting at Jehan over his shoulder.

“Desist!”

“Oh!”  Jehan let him go.   “I am sorry.”

“I don’t think you are anymore.  Which one is she?”

Jehan sighed dreamily.  “You’ve missed her?  Yonder maiden fair...”   

Courfeyrac had to squint, even then not seeing.  Eventually Jehan grabbed the sides of his head, physically turning it a certain way.  

His gaze fell on a group of four women.   One was grey, seeming to be a governess of sorts, and one was barely six years old.  Writing off the pair of them,  he looked over the remaining two.  One seemed pleasant enough, if not rather plain, her clothes fine but simple.   Courfeyrac could not quite fathom Jehan Prouvaire, colourful as he was, falling for so simple a specimen.  Her conduct was stiff, matched, and mannered; everything Prouvaire was not.   And the fourth women Courfeyrac knew to excuse straightaway.  She was the Duchess de Boudelaire, a French noblewoman married to an English duke.  Everyone knew of the Boudelaires, and the Duchess was the epitome of all their household was.   Sharp, apathetic, never seen with a smile, and even though she had married a foreign Duke she was still known by her family name, and even still lived with them.  Although, rather, her family lived with her.   The Duke was rarely in Paris but the Duchess had five younger sisters, one who was married and living in the south, and the other four who ranged from six to eighteen living with her.  Come to think of it, the little girl with the governess was probably the youngest Boudelaire.   Though the Duchess’ companion was clearly not.  The companion was fair and tender, not striking and pallid against dark hair as was the Boudelaire wont.

Courfeyrac sat for a moment, looking over the prospects, at a complete loss.  It seemed whoever he might assume would be the incorrect answer.

He was going to question Prouvaire when a fifth woman graced their company.  Like the heavens opened just for him, Courfeyrac might have sworn angels sang as the fifth made her appearance.  She seemed to be about seventeen – perhaps the one with the twin, then, as he recalled the Boudelaire twins being about that age – and she was gathering flowers.   A pretty yellow thing sat behind her ear, and her dress was dampened at the hem from where she had been trudging through the garden.  Wisps of hair fell forward from her up do, and she had a merry smile on her pretty face.

Courfeyrac looked up at Jehan, finding his expression had faded to utter bliss.

When Courfeyrac stood, Jehan was forced to step back, and slowly did he return from his reverie.

“Well?”  he asked.

Courfeyrac smiled.  “She’s charming.”

Jehan seemed to melt.  He wrapped his arms around himself.   “Is she not, though?  Excellence made manifest.   There is no perfect creature on earth, but she aligns so closely.   I thought her an angel the very first time I saw her...”

“This is what we are going to do.” Courfeyrac said, and took Jehan by the arm.

Jehan’s eyes widened.  “Do? Why...we’re starting...so soon?” He was turning pink again.

Courfeyrac tapped Jehan’s nose with his cane.  “Not quite.  Now, listen to my instructions carefully...”

 

=

 

Jehan paced anxiously back and forth across the garden path. 

Courfeyrac was a master of discourse, his dash and romanticism eclipsing Prouvaire’s inelegant fever.  Part of him was grateful Courfeyrac was his conductor, the composer of this great romantic symphony.  Unfortunately, Jehan also knew Courfeyrac was quick with his... baton, as it were, and almost feared his melody would be enchanting enough to  lead her astray like a siren their prey. 

He wound up amusing himself when he pictured Courfeyrac with a fish tail. 

Though those spirits withered once more as he considered the fallacy of their plight.  So long he had watched her, dreamed of her, smiled and thought of her.  He filled his books with poetry, some of the best and worst he ever penned.  But he knew very well from the start that poetry was their ending.  To pursue any sort of relation with her was impossible, surely! 

But Jehan admitted he believed in Courfeyrac.  If anyone could wrangle this seemingly impossible circumstance then it would be him.   Of course, Jehan would not permit himself to fill his head with silly fairy tales.  He was a Romantic but not a buffoon!  He knew very well that progress could only be delivered so far, even if his mind sometimes wandered through a fantastic epic that spanned decades and involved a stallion named Gusto...

At any rate, as soon as these thoughts subsided Courfeyrac emerged from the garden keep, meeting Jehan on the path.

Jehan all but leapt at him, hanging from Courfeyrac’s shoulders and staring up with imploring eyes.

“Tell me what she has said!”

“You should ask  _her_  these questions, not me,” Courfeyrac said, smiling, lifting Jehan off of him.   Jehan righted his stance, blinking ahead with an almost unseeing gaze.  It seemed he no longer spoke the common tongue.  Even more so when he suddenly burst forth with heavily accented Shakespearean English.

 “ _I_ _f I profane with my unworthiest hand_ — _!_ ” 

He seized Courfeyrac’s hand in both of his own, flushing a bright pink, eyes possessing a wild fervour.  If Courfeyrac did not know any better, he might have sworn Jehan had no idea what he was saying or doing.  Though upon second consideration, perhaps that was entirely true.  

“ _This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this..._ ”

“Prouvaire—”

“ _My lips!  Two blushing pilgrims ready stand to smooth that rough touch—_ ”  He was rubbing both his hands over Courfeyrac’s, almost diabolically.

Courfeyrac seemed to realize what was coming before Jehan did.

“Jehan—”

“— _with a tender kiss!_ ”

A tender kiss, indeed.  He seized Courfeyrac by the jaw and planted a wet kiss upon his mouth, brief and laughing, but enough that Courfeyrac swatted at him and blushed himself, glancing around thereafter as Jehan skipped in dainty little circles around him.

“You should have mentioned you desired a material portion to my instruction,” Courfeyrac jested.  Jehan was so caught up in his glee he hardly had time to be embarrassed over this remark.  He only giggled, smiling brightly at Courfeyrac.   “Now,” Courfeyrac swatted at him with his cane, “go see to the lady before you get us both arrested for public indecency.”

“Ooh.”  The tingle that ran down Jehan’s backside was obvious enough, and he quivered with delight.  “I shall, in that case!”

Courfeyrac shook his head, watching as Jehan retreated, up the same path Courfeyrac recently departed.

 By the time Jehan returned, Courfeyrac had met three ladies who were taking a stroll in the gardens.  He sat on a bench with one on either side of him, the third bent over the back and fiddling with his hat.   He was speaking of something relatively important, he was sure, but it all fled his mind the moment poor Jehan Prouvaire returned from his expedition, looking so incredibly forlorn Courfeyrac was quite certain he was worse than before this whole mission began. 

“My sweets, do forgive me, but I see a man in need of charity and I must—”

They did not keep him, cooing sweet praises of an understanding man, and sharing giggles and smirks between themselves when he retreated.

Trotting up the path way, Courfeyrac ended with a little skip in front of Jehan.  Jehan shuffled, feet scraping the ground, head cast down, borrowed hat in his hands.

“Prouvaire.” Courfeyrac’s brow furrowed and he clutched his cane.  “What is the matter?”

“Oh, it’s awful.”  Prouvaire lifted his gaze, staring ahead at nothing.  He laid a hand on his forehead.  “I feel  faint.”  Ever theatrical, he proved his fatigue and began to sway.  Courfeyrac had to move him along into the shade.  There, Jehan collapsed against a tree, sighing that melancholy sigh before shaking his head and muttering things to himself.

“I beg your pardon?”  Courfeyrac leaned in. Jehan continued to murmur nonsense.   “How now, Prouvaire!  Share the calamity!”

“She wishes to see me again!”  Jehan cried, voice breaking, his face contorted to absolute agony. 

Courfeyrac, being faced with this sight but also these words, summoned respite in order to consider exactly what unfolded.  Eventually he shook his head, removed his hat as though it distorted his reception, and asked, “did I hear you quite right?  She wishes to see you again?”

“Yes!”  Jehan pushed himself off the tree.  Without glancing Courfeyrac’s way, he trailed back down the garden path, dropping the hat somewhere along the way.  Courfeyrac picked it up, then stood and watched as Jehan wandered, peeling off the coat as he went.  Courfeyrac went to pick it up as well – making the conscious decision not to tell Joly it had been on the ground – and briefly wondered if this was how Jehan lost his other coat.  He looked back at up at that pitiful young man, his ostensibly drunken stagger leaving him to float side-to-side as he walked an otherwise straight path.  He was fraught with anguish, unseeing of the world once more, and Courfeyrac could not fathom why.  He followed Jehan a while, but when it became obvious he only wished to wallow, Courfeyrac let him be.

He returned to the Musain, indefinitely confused.

 

=

Two days passed but somehow Jehan felt like he was living the first all over again. 

“You should have never permitted that foolish old dandy to take the reins of your romance.”

Jehan scurried behind Bahorel, holding Combeferre’s hat to his head and clutching the looser portions of Bossuet’s coat.  This entire predicament seemed incredibly familiar, only as opposed to sirens and pretty songs, with Bahorel at the helm Jehan could not help but feel he was sailing onboard a ship that waved the Jolly Roger, intent on plundering some unsuspecting vessel.

It was a little bit tantalizing, he confessed, and his blood was pumping fast.   But he was so busy trying to keep stride with Bahorel’s furious gait that he could not offer it much consideration.

Though he did at least manager to cock an eyebrow and say, “but you’re older than Courfeyrac.”

“True.  Yet wise, at that.  You should have come to me to start with,” Bahorel said, looking at Jehan over his shoulder.  He frowned, pausing their march to adjust Jehan’s coat.   “Joly’s would have suited you far better.”

“Yes, but he found out I put it on the ground last time.  I’m not sure how.  He’s thorough to almost god-fearing degrees.”

“Hmm.”  Bahorel adjusted the hat as well, then continued on down the street. 

Jehan hurried after him.  “And you’re a dandy as well, on top of it all!”

“Yes.  But unlike Courfeyrac, I am a man’s dandy.” 

Jehan slowed a bit, glancing at Bahorel curiously.  “Might I suspect that sounded better in your head?”

“You might, and it did.”

“Ah.”

“The hat shop, then?”  Bahorel asked, coming to a slow halt across the street from the hat emporium.

“Yes,” Jehan said, nodding curtly.  “She comes here every Thursday at three.”

Bahorel rubbed his chin, regarding the shop.  “You are either incredibly Romantic or incredibly disturbed.  I will learn one of these days.   Until then, shall we?”   He took one step forward when Jehan clutched his arm, both hands circling around that impressive bicep, so much so he took a moment to pat it before shaking his head and looking up at Bahorel. 

“What is it you plan to do?”  Jehan asked.

“Firstly, you are going to clarify which lady she is – imagine Courfeyrac, the pomaded dolt! Arranging your conversation with the wrong girl.”  Bahorel waved a hand, forcing Jehan to release his arm.   He crossed the street in a few quick strides, stepping into the shop.  Jehan was on his heels.   Yet, after only seconds inside, he made sure to duck entirely behind Bahorel.   “What are you doing?” Bahorel asked.  He attempted to look back but everywhere he turned Jehan followed, desperate to stay hidden.  “Be a man, you beribboned bud!  How can you flourish in shadow?”  Bahorel tugged him forward, Jehan mewling and pulling the hat over his eyes.

“But they’re both here,” he whispered.

Bahorel looked back at him.  “Pardon?”

Jehan turned his hand over so their holds reversed.   He seized Bahorel by the forearm and led him behind a row of hat racks.

“There is Anastasie de Boudelaire,” Jehan whispered.  Bahorel parted a pair of hat racks to see, catching sight of the Boudelaire twins with a wheel of lavender ribbon.  “She wears the blue gown.  The very same who Courfeyrac confused and introduced to me!”

“He thought you loved  _her_?”  Bahorel asked, looking the girl over.  There was certainly nothing wrong with her – though Boudelaire was hardly his personal taste – but there something that did not seem to match Jehan’s general state of being.   They would conflict somehow.   There just seemed something in each of their airs. 

Her twin, however, made far more sense.   Her features were a little sharper, to be certain, but she looked about the room with more contemplation than wistfulness.   It was profound but curious, and not so absent-minded.   Like all the Boudelaires she was pale with dark hair, but the difference between her twin sister and her was palpable enough.

Bahorel let the hat racks fall back into place.   When he looked to Jehan he found only air, and had to look around for a moment to find him again.  When he did, he realized the lovesick loon had pressed himself into the wall and was gazing ahead with a dreamy gaze.  Bahorel shook his head before approaching, clutching Jehan’s wrist.

“This is what we are going to do...”

 

=

 

Jehan went to the back room as Bahorel directed, but it was not empty as they assumed.    He stumbled upon an old woman mending a hat.  She furrowed her brow at him and he glanced around awkwardly.

“Who are you?”  she demanded.

“I...um...”  Jehan removed his hat, twisting the brim in his hands.  “That is to say...that I...oh, what a fool’s mission I have embarked upon!”  Exasperated, he collapsed on a bench against the wall, hugging the hat to his chest.   “I did not ask for any of this, you know.   Why, barely a week ago I was content to exist in my dreams and poems but then...then my friend, you see, he told me he could arrange for my meeting her.  Oh, I should explain who ‘she’ is – I am in love, you see.   An aching and tender wound has marred my heart for so long now.  Oftentimes I cannot sleep, sometimes cannot eat.   I wile my hours in an idleness I once so abhorred, all for the thought of a woman!  Oh, but she is worth all the sin of the world!  There is no wrong in feeling something so right, so heavenly, so divine.   I find my soul in her eyes, my heart in her voice.   And yet I never sought anything corporeal!  I believed in little but the opportunity to simply  _speak_  with her, and I though this opportunity was promised but my poor, confused friend beheld the wrong woman!  I do not even think he saw the woman I referred to, but rather was blinded by the other, albeit charming, creatures!  But imagine, Anastasie de Boudelaire!   Yet she is lovely and kind and so I could not bear to confess the truth while she believed to hold my heart.  You know, it is believed that affection can often be wrought by simply instilling the notion a person is beloved of another.  I fear such a thing transpired.  I could not hurt her, but, oh, now my heart bears the responsible throb!   But my friend here today – a different friend, you see – seeks to remedy it, I do believe!  And moreover, I may at long last be given my chance to stand face to face with the affection of my heart, the light of my life, the sun of my sky and the stars that make the midnight moon glitter with all the power of romance.”

The woman stared at him.  

But he had little time to consider her as an amazed gasp sounded off to his left. He turned his head, jumping to stand when he saw Anastasie’s twin, Blandine, standing in the doorway.   She was staring at him with a dreamy expression, clutching a hat in her hand.

“So it is true what your friend says!”  she cried.  “And I hear it now from your own lips.  I came here to tell you I could never strive to return your affections so long as my sister was enamoured, but hearing your devotion now does set me alight!   Oh, forgive my indecency but I cannot help myself!   Tell no one of this moment!”   With that, she stepped into the room, grabbed him by the lapel of Bossuet’s coat, and pulled him forward for what he thought would be a kiss on the mouth but was a wet, warm press of her lips to his cheek.   She blushed profusely, as did he, each of them clutching a hat as she pulled back.   “Oh!” she cried once more before fleeing the room, giggling.

He stood there a moment, startled.

Bahorel waited outside the shop, nodding to Blandine de Boudelaire as she hurried out the door.  Her sister, confused, followed behind with a lifted eyebrow.   The Duchess and middle sister departed afterwrads, their arms looped, stern expressions on their face as they went past.

At least, the Duchess was so.  Her sister’s gaze strayed to Bahorel and she smiled a bit.  Bahorel tipped his hat and she blushed, looking away.

Bahorel was grinning to himself when Jehan suddenly stumbled out of the shop, missing both the hat and coat.

“Prouvaire, where have your things gone?”

Jehan was muttering to himself, walking in a sort of uneven stagger.

“Jean Prouvaire?”

Still nothing.  Murmuring to himself, Jehan trailed away, swaying as he walked.  Bahorel went back into the shop to retrieve Bossuet’s coat and Combeferre’s hat, and by the time he returned Jehan was departed.  

He returned to the Musain, relatively bemused.

 

=

Jehan did not leave his rented rooms for another two days.  On the third he returned to the Musain, but it was on the fourth day that Bossuet approached him and they spoke.

“Handsome and rash and romantic and bloody ol’ dandies, they are!”  Bossuet clapped a hand on Jehan’s shoulder, steering him out the door.   “You wish to woo your lady?  I cannot help you, I confess.  But I know someone who can and I shall take you there now.”

Jehan did not suspect where it was they would retreat, but was not so surprised when he found himself sequestered in a rather dingy part of the market.   All made sense when he spotted Musichetta, sitting on a crate and eating an apple.   She had removed her shoes, holding them in her lap, and was kicking her legs as she chomped on the fruit.   When she saw Bossuet approaching she gave him an exaggerated smile, wiggling her fingers in greeting.   Bossuet waved, taking Jehan with his free hand and guiding him forward.

“You remember Jehan, do you not, Musichetta?”  Bossuet asked.  Jehan looked at him before meeting Musichetta’s gaze.  She looked him over, crossing her legs.

“I believe I do.  He looks sick.  Why have you brought him here?”

“He’s in love.”

“Oh.”  Musichetta smiled, eyebrows lifting.  “I see, I see.”

Jehan could feel the warmth in his cheeks, and he scrubbed there uncomfortably.  Musichetta took another bite of her apple before hopping off her crate, shoving the fruit into Bossuet’s mouth when he opened it to speak.  He bit down, seeming to momentarily lock his jaw around the skin of the fruit. 

Musichetta turned Jehan away.  She ran her hands from his shoulders to his wrists, making him quiver.  She lifted a curious gaze and he was certain she could read all of his greatest secrets just by looking at his eyes. 

“Look at you, poor thing,” she cooed, and stroked his cheek, brushing fallen strands of hair out of his eyes.    “No coat, no hat, hair all astray.  Come.”  She took his head.  “I will prepare you.”

He looked at Bossuet over his shoulder but Bossuet just smiled, chewing the apple and following them.

Musichetta’s instruction was not so different from Courfeyrac’s, but Jehan felt easier with everything having heard it from a woman.   Even if that woman was Musichetta and she was a little...brash.   At least relatively.  To say the least. 

He hoped she spoke for the internal dialogue of the average person, however, because he rather liked her considerations. 

They returned to the street, Bossuet sitting on a bench while Musichetta helped Jehan perfect his stance.

“Oh, but I do not understand,” Jehan said, shoulders caving.   “Should she not love me for all that I am?  Why must I stand thus, speak thus, turn thus.  I wish to...to...to divulge my soul!  To share my thoughts and affections.   Or, at the very least, be on plain terms.  Honest and equal, not decorated!”

“You are very sweet, you little angel,” Musichetta said, pinching his cheeks.   “But if you wish to garner her attention at all, you must present yourself well!”

“I suppose.”

“Very good.  Now kiss me.”

“What?”  He reached for the lapels of the coat that was not his, clutching them.   “You...what?”

“I wish to see where it is you might need to improve.  Bossuet tells me you are not well acquainted with the physical aspects of romance.”

Jehan cast Bossuet a glare.  Bossuet wore a long expression, feigning confused indifference, so much so he shrugged and made motion to indicate Musichetta was mad.   Jehan regarded him dryly before Musichetta placed her fingers under his chin and turned him forward.  He gulped, licking his lips.

“Very nice,” Musichetta said.  “Think nothing of it.  I will tell you what to do after.”

It was she who kissed him, technically.  Jehan was not very tall but Musichetta was a short, buxom thing, and so she had to lift onto her toes to reach him.   He had bestowed a few chastely romantic kisses in his lifetime, but not very many.  Still, he seized what little experience he possessed and offered it forward, kissing with what thoughts came to him as well, what a kiss should feel like or move like.

He thought he was all right, perhaps not special, but satisfactory.

When he pulled back Musichetta was blinking at him, having gone a bit pink.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Oh.”  Musichetta fanned herself, then snorted in delight.  “Perhaps I should kiss you again to be certain—”

Bossuet slid in between them, giving Jehan an uncomfortable grin.

“She’s wrangled two of us already and I’m not falling for it again,” Bossuet said.  Jehan was not entirely sure what he referred to but it made Musichetta laugh.  She strung her arms around Bossuet’s waist and pressed her cheek to his back, making him grin. 

“Was I all right then?”  Jehan asked.

“I thought so.”

It was not Musichetta who replied, nor Bossuet making jest.

Jehan turned his head and saw Anastasie de Boudelaire tapping her foot impatiently. 

“A-A-Anastasie!”  Jehan cried, surprised.  “Where...where did you come from?”

Anastasie stood for a moment, frowning, then looked over her shoulder.  After a moment she beckoned him forward.   Jehan looked at Bossuet and Musichetta but they were slowly backing away. 

Jehan shuffled towards Anastasie, bracing himself for a slap.  Surely by now Blandine had told her of the back room confession, and now to have caught him with Musichetta as well!  

However, Anastasie leaned towards him, pulling a flower out from behind her ear and tucking it into his cravat. 

“Do you know where I live?”  Anastasie asked.   

Jehan nodded.  Even if he were not in love with a Boudelaire, he would know their address as there were very few in Paris who did not know of the Boudelaires’ every place and move. 

Anastasie smiled.   “Good.  Come to me tonight.”

Jehan could feel all that warmth in his cheeks dissipate, flushing him white as Anastasie turned heel and left.   Stunned, he stared at the space she had once occupied, expression void of all thought save for a reflection of panicked surprise. 

He knocked off his hat after a moment, then started pulling off the coat he had been given.  Trailing away, gaze unseeing, walk uneven and convoluted, the coat dropped to the ground.   He even reached for the buttons of his waistcoat and began to undo those as well.

Musichetta and Bossuet ran after him, Musichetta picking up the dropped clothes as Bossuet hollered, “Jean Prouvaire, stop that!  Keep your clothes on!”

 

=

 

Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Bossuet had all insisted he take the opportunity presented.    Granted, they each approached it a little bit differently.  Courfeyrac explained the tenderer, romantic workings, how to treat Anastasie and what to make of her offer, what was all right to pursue and what caution needed reckoning.  Bahorel said everything Courfeyrac said, only he said it louder, and it sounded a bit rougher.   Bossuet showed support as Bossuet always did.

Somehow, it all made sense when his friends encouraged him.

Now that he was standing in Anastasie de Boudelaire’s bedchamber, it was far less so.

“Are you all right?”  Anastasie asked, dressed down to her nightgown.   Jehan was standing by the window, his back to her, still in his trousers, shirt, and waistcoat.  He was staring into the night with the gaze of a grave man.     “You have done this before?”

“Have you?”  Jehan asked, pulled from his reverie.  Anastasie was sitting on the corner of her bed, flattening creases in her nightgown.   She looked at him sarcastically.

“Of course not, silly.  That’s why you’re here.  I’ll never get anything from my family and I’ll never marry well because of it, so I intend to live as a free woman.  Naturally I should begin with the man who loves me, no?   Now come.”   She lay down in the middle of the bed, staring up.  “I am ready.”

Jehan stood there for a moment, wondering why everything was going blurry and then realized he had stopped breathing.   He gasped, turning away from her, then looked down at his waistcoat.

 _You can do this,_ he said to himself.  Courfeyrac spoke of the pleasures no person should be denied, Bahorel spoke of sex and love going hand in hand but how sex could literally go in hand (which Jehan tried not to dwell on), and Bossuet told him that Musichetta’s praise was hard to garner and that surely he had the potential to be a skilled lover.

His fingers caught on his waistcoat buttons and he wound up having to pull it over his head, bumping into the wall when it stuck on his forearms, cutting off his air supply until he pulled it off and breathed again. 

“Do you want help?”  Anastasie asked, sounding bored.

“No!”  His voice broke and he cleared it.  “I am, um, the more experienced and so...I should...I should...I am...um...”   He heard her climb off the bed before he felt her, but he felt her presence soon enough.    He turned around as she set to undoing the buttons of his shirt, and once it was opened she leaned up on her toes to kiss him.   It was very sweet, the sort of thing he read about in the kindest of love poems.

And it did absolutely nothing for him and he realized quite suddenly there was a possibility his body would not even cooperate with him on this night. 

“Do not be so frightened,” she said, patting his cheek.   “We will be slow – tender and sweet and romantic like you!”  She turned and went back to the bed, leaving him to stand there, sighing.

Tender and sweet and romantic like him, of course, of course.

This felt so wrong...

He considered it only a moment before he heard shouting, and he looked out the window to see Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Bossuet standing in the front yard.  He leaned over, face scrunching in bemusement.  They were waving at him, desperate signs to stop it seemed.  He tipped his head to the side, confused.

Of course, what poor Jean Prouvaire could not know, was that just earlier that evening Bossuet received news.   He had rushed into the back room of the Musain and all but toppled a table in his attempt to reach Bahorel.

“How now, Lesgles!”  Combeferre cried, he and Enjolras gripping the table so it would not flip and spill all their things. 

“What devil has possessed you tonight?” Bahorel asked, laughing, drinking from a bottle.

“I’ve just spoken with Musichetta who was speaking with Heloise – you know, the fair-haired maid in the Boudelaire house?”

“Boudelaire?”  Courfeyrac asked, and turned away from Feuilly in order to join this conversation.  “What of Boudelaire?”

“Musichetta told me that Heloise says the twins have plotted to shame some ‘womanizing brigand who has broken both their hearts!’” 

Bahorel choked on the wine he had been drinking, spraying it out with his surprise, right into Bossuet’s face.   Bossuet, resigned, wiped at it before continuing. 

“Do you see, then?  They have plotted against Prouvaire and intend to see him both shamed and perchance penalized!” 

Bahorel looked back at Courfeyrac.  Courfeyrac, staring with a white terror at Bossuet, glanced at him.   Bahorel looked back at Bossuet who had broken a sweat.

It was Enjolras who, from his place leaning against the table and reading a journal, casually remarked, “you better start running.”

They were on their feet in an instant, hats and coats a-flurry as they broke for the door, tripping over each other on their way out. 

“What if our intervention arrives too late?”  Bossuet asked, holding his hat to his head as they ran. “What if they’ve caught him?  What if the Duchess has found him?  What if they’ve arrested him?  What if—”

“It’s his first time!” Bahorel shouted, waving a hand.  “He’s probably killed the beast before feeding it!”

“Thank god you’re not a poet!”  Courfeyrac declared, clutching his hat likewise.

They were at the house in a moment, pelting the window with pebbles until Jehan’s ashen little face looked down at them from the second story, confused.   They jumped and hollered and waved their arms, but he only stared at them like they had lost their minds.

“What do we do?”  Bossuet asked, out of breath.   The other two were the same, and Bahorel removed his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“We must speak with him,” Courfeyrac said, then looked back up at the second story window.

Jehan glanced back and forth between the commotion outside and Anastasie who lay in bed singing to herself, none the wiser, obviously thinking Jehan needed a moment to prepare himself.  He looked back out the window, blinking in surprise when he saw Bossuet climbing onto Courfeyrac’s shoulders.

 _What the hell are they doing?_  he asked himself, tipping his head to the side.

“I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die,” Bossuet chanted, sitting on Courfeyrac’s shoulders. 

“You will if you do not cease your nattering,” Bahorel said, bracing himself.  “And that’s a promise as it will be me who does you in.”

Bossuet said nothing but closed his eyes tight as Bahorel picked up Courfeyrac.  They all swayed, hollering as Bahorel sought to place Courfeyrac on his shoulders as Bossuet sat upon Courfeyrac’s.

Jehan slapped his hands over his mouth, eyes widening.

“Is everything all right?”  Anastasie asked.

He whirled around, pressing his back to the window.  Giggling nervously, he nodded.   “Of—of course!  It’s just...the...moon...is...niiiiice...?”

Anastasie stared at him a moment more then laid back down.

He breathed out, looking out the window just in time for Bossuet to grip the sill.  He instantly positioned himself so Anastasie could not see him, and then leaned in and pressed his ear to the sealed glass in order to hear what Bossuet was trying to say.

“It’s a trap!”  Bossuet spoke as clearly as he could, trying to make his voice clear through the thick glass.  Jehan still seemed confused for a moment, then Bossuet thumped the pane and drew a finger over his throat, pointing to the bed.  Jehan looked at him, then somewhere in the room, then at Bossuet again with wide eyes.

“A trap?” he mouthed.

Bossuet nodded vehemently.  Jehan dashed away from the window and Bossuet leaned back, a bit too far as it threw off Courfeyrac who in turn threw off Bahorel.

“Bossuet!”  they shouted in unison, and seconds after that they all tumbled down.

Jehan searched around for his waistcoat, crying out because the buttons were still stuck.  He tucked it under his arm and searched for his jacket.

Anastasie sat up, moving to the foot of the bed.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, brow furrowing.

“This is a mistake!”  Jehan cried.  “It was a mistake all along but now it’s an even bigger mistake!  Oh, I am never telling Courfeyrac another secret!”

“You’re leaving me?” Anastasie asked, horrified.  Jehan picked up his coat, tugging on one sleeve before dodging the pillow Anastasie hurled at him.  “You do not leave me!  I leave you!  And you were supposed to remove your trousers!”

“Wha—!”

She threw another pillow and he ran for the door, jacket half-on, waistcoat in his other arm.  Anastasie pursued him, chasing him down the corridor.  He slipped on the top step and slid halfway down the stairwell, catching himself onto the banister.

“Blandine!” she screamed.  “Lilou! Heloise!  See how he escapes!”

Jehan let out a startled squeal as more doors started opening, the house he thought to be sleeping suddenly wide awake.   He hurried down the remaining steps, making for the unguarded front door.   A series of hollers and shouts followed him, steps hammering down the stairs.  He felt as though he were being pursued by an army, perhaps worse.  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, indeed!  He should very much like to challenge that claim.  Hell hath no fury like a house full of women all accidentally made to believe he loved the incorrect series of persons!

His fingers circled the handle of the front door when a thunderous, “STOP!” rang through the house.

He paused, the voices all quieted, the footsteps on the stairs halting.

He turned around slowly, as did the rest of them, Boudelaire sisters and maids alike, and they all looked to where the Duchess de Boudelaire stood at the top of the stairs. 

Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Bossuet came slamming around the outside corner, pressing their faces to the foyer window.

Jehan stared up at the Duchess as she descended the stairs.  Her sisters and maids stepped aside as she went, pressing themselves slowly to the wall.   Her gaze never strayed from Jehan.  Soon he found himself flattened against the door, pierced there by her steadfast gaze alone. 

She was regal, even in nothing but her nightdress and robe, her hair all undone as though she was in the midst of preparing it for bed, her face washed and feet bare.  Her stare was cold and as seemingly heartless as always, features striking and angles sharp, shoulders square, form cutting and lean, her gait that ruthless walk of a social murderess.  His heart was in his throat, the blood in his body coursing with a madness he had never known.

Oh yes, truly, Jehan Prouvaire had been desperately in love with this cold-blooded creature for months now.  How could anyone not love the Duchess de Boudelaire, he wondered.  It was true, she was fierce and resolute, but that titillating ferocity had been the very thing that drew him to her.  From the first time he heard her shout, saw her scold her sisters and grip their arms with an angry, bruising ire, he knew his heart was sold.   He supposed his natural state should have leant itself to someone softer and gentle like him, but he could not help who he loved.  He loved her hidden but terrible wrath and her outwardly cold intensity. 

She stopped a few feet in front of him.   He was almost horrified with himself as his body, having never before been so close to the Duchess, seemed to lose its own control and instantly began to develop a reaction below his waist.  He gulped, shifting uncomfortably beneath her gaze.

She sighed, barely turning her head to address the group behind her.

“Return to your chambers,” she ordered.  “I am lady of this house and I will see to our intruder’s sentencing.”

“But Marielle—” Anastasie and Blandine spoke in unison, stepping forward.

“Concern yourselves not,” the Duchess snapped, looking over her shoulder.  The twins swallowed nervously, glanced at each other, and then retreated up the stairs. 

Jehan, panting, watched as the whole troop returned to their respective chambers.  Lights were doused, doors closed, and soon he was alone in a dim foyer with the Duchess de Boudelaire.

“What are you doing?” Bahorel asked Bossuet.  Courfeyrac looked back as well, finding Bossuet on his knees, palms turned skyward.

“Jean Prouvaire was a religious man,” he said.  “He would have wanted to die in prayer.”

Bahorel kicked at him.  “Get off your knees, you lout.”

“What in heaven’s name...?”  Courfeyrac muttered, staring in confusion.  Bahorel and Bossuet joined him at the window again.

Jehan pressed himself even further into the door, half-wishing for the power to dissolve straight through it, and half-desiring the strength to simply meet the Duchess face to face.

“It is the middle of the night,” she said.  “Are you aware of this?”

He gulped again, nodding. 

“I want your words,” she said, voice low and smooth.

He cleared his throat, practically hacking, then answered softly, “I...yes.  Yes, I know.”

“Do you consider this at all appropriate conduct?” she asked, eyebrow only just barely lifting.  Had he blinked, he might have missed the shift altogether.

“I do not, my ladyship...my...my Duchess...Duchess...Duchess...”

She trailed the tips of her finger from his temple down his jaw, fingers circling his chin.  She was slightly taller than him, and so looked down with a heavy-lidded stare.  He swallowed, hips shifting, body imploring, mind screaming to cease while simultaneously melting. 

“I’m afraid to say I cannot allow such impudence to go unpunished,” she said, and her hand was at his shoulder, tugging on his coat.  “Come now.  Let it go.”   He did, the coat dropping to the floor.   The waistcoat followed it.   He hummed a nervous but enamoured little drone, eyelashes fluttering as she leaned in towards him.  He yelped when she snapped the bands of his suspenders, unhooking them each in a single go so they fell from his shoulders.  Then her hand was at the front of his trousers, working through the buttons.  He gripped the door, fingers searching for something to properly hold, and he swallowed and gasped as she pressed and rubbed her fingers over the front of his trousers.

“Are you sorry?”  she asked.

Without thinking, he answered, “no.”   Then he realized what he said and his eyes widened.  “That is, I mean to say—!”

She shook her head, gripping his arm and pulling him off the door. “I’m afraid I will have to settle this.”

“Settle it?” he asked, walking with shaky steps, her hold on his arm burning through his sleeve as she led him up the stairs.

“Oh yes,” she said, gripping the front of his shirt and pulling him to the top of the stairs, smirking a devilish grin.  “You need punishing, my dear boy.  And I will deliver it, however long it takes for your lesson to be learned.”

Were he a lesser man, he might have spent himself right there.   As it was, he merely breathed a shaky breath and an amazed little sigh as she all but threw him into her bedroom, slamming the door behind them.

“Well,” Courfeyrac said, clearing his throat.

“That took an unexpected turn,” Bahorel added.

“You see, if that was me, I’d have been taken out back and shot,” Bossuet said.

Bahorel grabbed him the ear, tugging. “Not too late for that.”

“It’s your fault just as much as mine!”  Bossuet cried, wrestling him off.

 

=

 

Jehan did not return to the Musain for another two days, and when he finally did he somehow still managed to look thoroughly ravished.

“Where have you been?”  Feuilly asked, the first to notice Prouvaire when he stumbled into the back room.

“I was...occupied...”

Bahorel, who was sitting with Grantaire and Bossuet, lowered his bottle to stare at Jehan.

“You’ve been there two days?” he asked.

Jehan nodded slowly, a small smile taking to his face.

“She was very thorough in her punishment.  Look!”  He pulled back the sleeves to his shirt, revealing welts on his wrist.  “She clapped me in irons!”  He was delighted with this. 

Bossuet swiped Bahorel’s bottle, taking an enormous swig.

“I’m not sure what has gone on,” Feuilly said, righting Jehan’s sleeves.  “But I believe that was a touch too much information.”

“Oh no,” Jehan laughed, almost darkly.  “There was much more than that!  She had little rings and corks and—”

“Heaven almighty,” Bahorel said, staring at Jehan in wonder. 

Jehan sat down beside a distraught Courfeyrac, sighing.  

“Alas, my friends, this tale has a sad ending, for the perilous romance cannot continue.”

“Oh?”  Courfeyrac asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Jehan nodded, planting his chin in his palm.  “She only wanted me for my beautiful body.”

“Ah.”  Courfeyrac stifled a laugh.  “She told you as much?”

Jehan sighed again, nodding.

“I wish I had your bad luck,” Bossuet remarked.

Grantaire had his lips pursed, glancing back and forth between the group.  He looked at Feuilly who shrugged.  

Enjolras, leaning against the table and reading again, still did not look up but remarked all the same, “I hope we all learned a valuable lesson here.”

“I certainly have,” Jehan said, sitting straight.  “The first, do not fall in love with Duchesses. They will use your body and break your heart.   The second, trust Courfeyrac with no secret!   The third, the human body possesses a beautiful capability to carry a great many things inside of it with the correct lubrication!”

Bahorel, who was drinking, spat wine all over Bossuet again.

Enjolras glanced at Jehan, then shook his head and looked back down at his journal.

“Jean Prouvaire.” Courfeyrac slung his arm over the poet’s shoulder.  “I heartily encourage you to heed your own advice and, please, I implore you – keep your secrets to yourself.”

“Oh but I wrote a poem—”

Courfeyrac put his hand over Jehan’s when he reached for his bag, shaking his head.

“No, that is all right,” he said.  “I think I have had my fill of your poetry for some time now.”

 “I suppose it for the best,” Jehan said.  “It was sixteen pages of alliteration. The possibilities of posing a poem whose partisans are pieces of one particular point were positively infinite!”

“Ahhh.”  Grantaire smiled, at last realizing what had happened.  “I understand.  Congratulations on the phallus poetry, as it were.”

Enjolras rubbed the bridge of his nose, Bahorel spat on Bossuet, and Bossuet hit Bahorel with a bottle.

Jehan giggled and then blushed profusely.  


End file.
